Between Friends: A Writing Project
by Tara621
Summary: 5 Friends. 1 Prompt. 6 Days. 500 Words. - A writing project between DifferentChild, ficdirectory, Tara621, PenMagic, MyMagentaPeach & pionaskateboard. Each chapter is a one-shot from a different week's prompt with different characters. Updates weekly! (Rated M for Chapter 10, all others rated T.)
1. Chapter 1

**Prompt: **Be prepared

**Character: **Blaine

**Words: **573

The bruises are large, swollen and ugly. The leather jacket and gloves have not provided the protection he had hoped for. Mr. Schuester's and Jake's wrists might be slightly raw. They might even have the odd bruise here or there, but nothing like this. This looks like he's not only been tightly bound from forearm to wrist, but that he struggled violently to get free for days. Not that he'd simply done a few rehearsals and a single performance with what he'll call, for lack of a better word, wrist stirrups.

He loved dancing and the rush that performing gave him in general. He was nowhere near as good as Mr. Schue or Jake, but that was never the point. The point was, it made him feel alive. And he would chase that feeling for as long as he was able.

But if anyone saw what this euphoric feeling cost him, everything would come crashing down.

It's not just the bruises, but they are by far the most visible proof of a problem on him. This is something he can fix.

Not fix.

But hide.

So, he wears the leather jacket home, and sets the alarm on his phone for fifteen minutes earlier than normal. Then, he falls into bed, heedless of his costume and the afternoon sunlight still streaming through the window.

* * *

The persistent chirp of his phone pulls him from the mire of an unfathomable twelve-and-a-half hours of sleep. Fatigue grips him mercilessly, an endlessly annoying friend he cannot convince to go home.

Slowly, he pushes himself up, wincing at the stiffness in his wrists. He has trouble removing the jacket and gloves because of the swelling before making his way into the bathroom for a shower.

Another day, another performance.

He visualizes his best doo-wop moves from days back at Dalton, singing I Still Believe under his breath. _Understated, _he reminds himself. _Nothing flashy_. Let _her take it._

First things first, though.

After toweling off and shaving, he reaches automatically for the top, right hand drawer in the vanity. From it, he pulls a small zippered bag.

Taking it back to his bedroom, he sets several shades of concealer on the desk, along with a tube of mauve lipstick, a bottle of foundation and some translucent powder. Quickly, he's figuring which colors complement the dark jewel tones of his wrists and arms. The lipstick is discarded as too messy over such a large area, in favor of green and yellow based concealers, which he expertly applies. He follows up with foundation and powder.

After checking for and doctoring other obvious bruises, he swipes under-eye concealer on his raccoon eyes, then looks critically into the mirror. His wrists still look puffy, but a cardigan should cover that.

It will have to do.

* * *

He drives to the Lima Bean for his morning coffee and biscotti on his way to school, admiring the swirl of pink and orange of the sunrise outside the window. Probably before school lets out for the year, he will be gone. He swallows past the lump that has risen in his throat, shaking his head to clear it.

_Focus, Blaine. You get to sing today, and maybe dance a little bit._

_Does it get any better than that?_

Rolling down the windows, he takes a deep breath of the air still full of winter and exhales.

He does it again.

And again.

Until he is smiling.


	2. Chapter 2

**Prompt: **Hearing loss

**Character: **Jake

**Words: **533

_It comes out of nowhere. A blow to the side of his head so severe that his eyes tear. _

"_Still want to sing a Chris Brown song?"_

* * *

No. He's never wanted to do anything less in this moment.

* * *

His ear aches sharply and then subsides to a dull throb where he was hit. Shock and adrenaline war inside him as heat floods his face.

* * *

His mom is still at work when he gets home. He paces from room to room, wishing there were someone he could call. He wishes he didn't have a dick for a father. He wishes his brother wasn't stuck in a K-hole - that's K for Kitty and all her craziness, not some kind of drug slang. The bottom line is, there's no one.

He lowers himself to the couch slowly, mindful of the dizziness and the nausea he's had since the stupid sucker punch.

He takes a few deep breaths, and then plugs his headphones into the laptop formerly owned by Dalton. No use in freaking out unless it's true. He plays songs and YouTube videos. He turns on the TV. But the hearing in his left ear is gone.

* * *

It's enough to make him call Mrs. Rose and ask her for a ride. (Once during the conversation, he switches his cell over to his left ear, just experimenting, and there's this terrifying nothingness that steals his breath until he switches back to pick up the tail end of Marley's mom saying she'll be there in fifteen minutes.)

* * *

Millie drops him off at the fitness club, where he's said he promised to meet friends. He doubles back down the sidewalk and toward an urgent care clinic.

In the parking lot of the clinic, he hears a horn honk, but there's no one in front of him. He hears it again, closer this time. Turning in a circle, he finally notices the SUV behind him, waiting to exit.

He stumbles out of the way, anxiety climbing his chest like an ever-rising tide. Is that his heart he can taste in his throat? He can't be sure of anything anymore.

* * *

The official diagnosis is a ruptured eardrum. He needs to keep it dry and watch for signs of infection.

It should heal on its own in a few months.

His hearing _should_ come back.

He can't breathe.

* * *

Instead of just being annoying, school becomes infuriating. Teachers are always facing the board while they lecture. People call to him and unless they're in front of him, he has no clue which direction to look. He doesn't laugh at jokes because he always misses the part that makes them funny. He texts a lot but doesn't talk on the phone. Marley says she misses him.

He can't summon enough energy to miss her back. His good ear is tired doing double duty every day. _He_ is tired. The thought of carrying on an unnecessary conversation, singing in glee, listening to music or watching a movie exhausts him. His equilibrium is still screwy, so even dancing is dicey.

He's got nothing now.

Nothing except the memory of Brittany's self-satisfied smirk as she walked away from him.


	3. Chapter 3

**Prompt: **Sorry seems to be the hardest word

**Character: **Dave

**Words: **501

He calls as he's leaving Thurston. (Head down, rushing to his car like some _girl_.)

_Hi, you've reached Kurt Hummel…_

His voice breaks. Huddled in his car: "Kurt? I…really need to talk to you. This is Dave. Call me back."

Hands shake on the steering wheel. (So pissed this is happening.)

(Such an _idiot._)

_Hi, you've reached Kurt Hummel… _at the stop sign right before the turn onto his street.

Thank _God _his parents aren't home.

_Hi, you've reached Kurt Hummel… _standing in front of the refrigerator, unable to focus on anything inside (just bright shapes - too bright). He really just has an overwhelming urge to rip this huge appliance apart. Tip it on its side and tear its innards out. Find what makes it so _cold inside._

David against Goliath.

Where's a slingshot when he needs one?

He makes a sandwich instead. (_Hi, you've reached Kurt Hummel…_)

The staircase to his room is endless. His mind screams at him to pound them at top speed like a football drill, but he can hardly put one foot in front of the other.

In his room, he foolishly assumes the worst is over.

Facebook is supposed to be a mindless time suck, a harmless narcotic. But it's a war zone. And he's the only one on his side. (And whose fault is that?) (His laptop goes flying.) Still, he calls for the only reinforcement he knows.

_Hi, you've reached Kurt Hum -_

_Hi, you've reached -_

_Hi, -_

What does he expect, really?

He's out of ideas.

Except one.

Has Kurt ever thought of this one?

_Hi, you've reached Kurt Hummel…_

He is supposed to leave a note, he thinks. It's not like he's thought a lot about it, but it only seems polite. His dad has been concerned for a long time now, and what will a note do but give him a lasting reminder of _what he did not see?_

What would it say?

_Sorry I'm such a screw-up that I got kicked out of McKinley? That I bullied my only potential ally so relentlessly that when I just needed _someone _to understand - when I _finally_ understood the torture I dished out - Kurt refused to pick up even one of my calls? Because I creepily professed my love for him in a gorilla suit, and why would anyone ever love me? That I deeply and profoundly _deserve_ this ending?_

No. He won't leave a note.

There's a bad moment on his bed, when he's just holding the belt, and God he's so scared, he's losing it. But what other option does he have than surrender?

He gets dressed. Sunday best. (Remember me this way.) (I tried.)

_Hi, you've reached Kurt Hummel…_

(Steady now.) "Hey Kurt, this is Dave again. I know I've said this before, but I just want you to know how sorry I am for what I did to you. Karma's a real bitch sometimes, but don't get me wrong, I deserve it. See ya."


	4. Chapter 4

**Prompt: **The right place for love

**Character: **Carole

**Words: **501

I don't think the term _widow_ applies to my situation. Because my Christopher is not lost. He's with me. He's _in_ me. And part of me is only his.

* * *

_Two antennas met on a roof, fell in love and got married. The ceremony wasn't much, but the reception was brilliant._

I'd chuckled at his pun, one he told me on our first official _date_-date, not knowing then that I'd opened a door.

A week later, while making out on his prized pinball machine, he called me Annie in between kisses. Understandably, I called him a pig. Pushed him off me. _"I'm Carole." _I'd said. _"If you can't get that straight, then this isn't going to work, _George._" _

_No, please don't leave! I called you Annie because you're my antenna, and we're going to get married someday! It was stupid - I'm sorry._

"_Whoa, slow down, cowboy! Marriage? We've only known each other a week! You didn't even let me touch your pinball machine til tonight, for God sake__**!**__" _

He said nothing, easing me back onto the game again, a shy smile playing on his lips.

Then, _You're actually _laying on _my pinball machine. You better believe this is serious._

We laughed.

Then kissed.

Then, _"Call me Annie again, Christopher. I could get used to it."_

* * *

For the record? Our reception rocked.

* * *

_How's Finnder-Bender doing today? And how's my Annie?_

"_You can't call him that, Christopher! You'll damage his self-esteem! …Though he _is _doing an awful lot of crashing into my bladder lately, so…"_

_I miss you._

"_I miss _you_. How's it going?"_

_Okay. I'm tired, nervous. Irritated over every little thing. Disappointed that I let things get to this point. I want to come home and hold you and talk to my son._

"_Attend the meetings, do the work, and you will. I told Finn that his daddy is working very hard to come home, and that he can't wait to meet him. Don't make me lie to our unborn child, honey."_

_I won't. Bye Annie. I love you._

* * *

When Finn is born, Christopher has his very own peanut gallery.

_Oh my God, Annie, listen to this! _He bounces the baby on his hip and then intones dramatically, _Hey Finnder! I tried to stand my bike up on its own, but it was two-tired._

He drags the last word out wearing an exaggerated sad face, and Finn starts belly-laughing like his dad is Robin Williams.

It is the cutest thing.

* * *

It's been 18 years since I've heard his voice, and yet I talk to him every night. Even now. It seems strange to say that our relationship is strong, but I think it is.

Except that I am no one's Annie now. I'm Carole. Somehow, it is this loss that makes my breath catch.

Some nights, being Carole feels like the biggest tragedy in all this.

I roll over in the bed Burt and I share, but I am reaching for Christopher.

"_Call me Annie again…"_


	5. Chapter 5

**Prompt: **Everyone is fighting

**Characters: **New Directions

**Words: **1072

**Warning: **Set during and post-episode 4x18. PTSD.

Afterward…

* * *

Tina can't stop crying. Her parents call the family doctor, who suggest a sleeping pill. She swallows it hungrily, and waits for the world to stop spinning…spinning…

* * *

When Kitty's parents reluctantly leave her room on Friday night, flipping her light off as they go, she shoots up in bed. Just that quickly, she's lost control again. Shallow breathing. Tears. Okay, sobbing. It would be so embarrassing, if she could think past the fear. They flip the light back on and come back inside.

Her dad sits just inside the door, while her mom climbs into bed with her. Kitty turns toward the wall, heart hammering at her mother's movements beside her.

"Please…leave the light on…"

* * *

Jake hugs his mom. Texts _Im fine. Love you bro_ to Puck before turning off his phone. Then he moves his dresser in front of his bedroom door, worries over the vulnerable state of his window. He sits against the dresser, pocket knife in hand, and closes his eyes.

* * *

Marley and her mom move like ghosts around their house. They don't speak.

* * *

Burt and Carole find Sam at Brittany's. He's a silent presence at her side as she cries.

"I have to go to the bathroom, Sam, but I'm so scared…" she shivers beside him.

Carole pulls Mrs. Pierce aside, whispering the situation. Mrs. Pierce murmurs encouragement as mother and daughter enter the bathroom together.

Burt ushers Sam to the car, while Carole tells Mr. Pierce not to hesitate to call if they need anything.

Sam stiffens, seeing an unexpected presence in the back of Burt's truck. A man. He turns toward Sam, and Sam's running - _away _from Brittany's house - drawing the threat with him. There's wind and blood rushing in his ears. Raised voices. Feet pursuing.

And then Carole's in front of him, and Burt and Finn (who must've been in the truck) are flanking him. They tell him to breathe, and that he's safe, and he shakes his head at their naïveté. Finn's arm around him is a reassuring support (thank God, because his knees are so weak right now), as they slowly make their way back to the truck. Carole's saying how glad she is that she wore her tennis shoes, and that she had lots of practice chasing Finn around through the years. Burt chuckles weakly, and Sam feels guilty for a split-second. Burt's sick.

Sam _feels_ sick.

Doubled over, he vomits in the street.

Sits on a nearby curb. Finn's now nervous hand pushing Sam's head between his knees.

"I want my mom and dad…" he gasps.

* * *

_Hey glee people, I know yesterday was really scary for all of us. Unique is thinking about all of you and playing every happy song on her I-Pod. Stay strong. Know that you're loved. xoxo._

* * *

He creeps into his dad's study on Sunday.

A moment passes before Walter Lynn looks up from his work. Wordlessly, he comes around his desk to sit next to his son on the couch.

"Ryder?"

"Can you read to me, Dad? Like when I was little?"

"Well, let's see…" A hand absently touches his son's head before he continues. "The Little Prince by Antoine de Saint-Exupery…"

Closing his eyes to the familiar melody of his father's voice, he allows the first hint of a smile since Friday. Because of course, his dad does not still have that worn copy readily available.

He has the book memorized, just like Ryder does.

* * *

Blaine is playing shadow with his parents. This version doesn't involve repeating everything they say, it's just his proximity to them. They don't seem to mind, except when they don't expect it.

A pan holding cinnamon rolls clatters noisily to the floor after jumping from his mother's hands after one such incident. She's still not used to her son always being _right there_. And now, breakfast is on the floor.

And so is Blaine. Flat on his stomach on the kitchen floor amid rolls and icing, hands over his head.

* * *

Despite repeated attempts by his parents to get him out of his darkened room, to eat something, Artie has been at his laptop since Friday afternoon. (He's not sure what day it is now. At least Saturday. Maybe Sunday.) He is a man possessed. He has all this raw footage on his camera phone, all these last words from himself and his classmates.

He can't stop watching it.

He doesn't know what to do with it.

Treat each talking head as its own mini-movie?

Rough cut everything together? Cut between talking heads? Fade? Wipe?

Nothing's right.

The videos sit on his phone, on his laptop, in his brain.

* * *

Sugar is never more happy to have the daddy she has. Because he has always taken her out of school for Daddy-Daughter Date Days, and Friday was one of those days. It's horrifying, what happened at McKinley.

She is so lucky.

Still, she worries about the New Directions. She has had gift baskets and balloon bouquets delivered to each of their houses, but only Unique calls to thank her.

Maybe she can talk her daddy into a few more date days, or a date week. She always feels safe with him.

Who needs school anyway?

* * *

He falls headlong into the same nightmare every time he closes his eyes.

_Miss Pillsbury underneath her desk, him shielding her, half hidden. Feeling her trembling form at his back. Painfully aware that one entire wall of this office is glass, that a school exit is mere steps from where they sit. But they don't know what's outside, so in a split-second, they hide instead._

_His cell phone is turned off in his backpack, per his parents' rule during school hours, and he doesn't dare retrieve it. _

"The Lord is my shepherd; I shall not want…"

"The Lord is my light and my salvation…"

"The Lord is my rock, my fortress and my deliverer…"

"The Lord is my strength and my shield…"

_The all-clear is called hours later, but Miss Pillsbury is not responsive when he turns to her. Just staring through him._

_This is the most terrifying moment. Eventually, she comes to enough to mumble "Hospital," so he helps her up and out to her car, which he nervously commandeers. _

_Traffic is horrible, but they get there. And she stays there. _

_And Joe leaves._

He wakes up with just enough breath to scream.


	6. Chapter 6

**Prompt: **"Whose little boy is that?"

**Characters: **Carole & Kurt

**Words: **526

I thought we had saved him with the wedding. I thought he would never go to Basic Training as a newlywed. And then, I lose him to Fort Benning.

Burt is relieved, and I should be too. But I can't breathe.

* * *

At first, I hear from him. I live for those phone calls. But after only a couple, they stop abruptly. I call, and first his phone is just off. And then, it's disconnected. And that is when the bottom drops out of my world. It's like Christopher all over again, but so much worse.

I don't know where my child is.

* * *

Burt says that it's a phase, that Finn's fine. But Kurt has never, would never do this.

We have dinner as a family one summer night. Grilled chicken and vegetables. A fresh fruit salad. I haven't set a place for Finn, feeling sick at the sense of accomplishment this has given me. I can feel Kurt eyeing me as he tells Burt about his plans with Blaine for the evening.

I'm so jealous of the two of them, I can't speak. I keep my gaze on food I don't taste, so that I don't see Finn's empty chair in my peripheral vision.

It's been a month since I've heard from him.

* * *

Another month goes by, and I can feel myself slipping.

I mean, I can't let myself go too far. I never could. Not the first time with Christopher because I had Finn to worry about. And now, I have a whole new family to manage - another son starting his adult life and a husband with health problems. So, there's not a lot of time for sliding down that slippery slope, which is probably for the best.

But at night lately, I find myself picking up the urn off my bedside table. I take it with me, walking soundlessly downstairs to Finn's room.

I need some family time.

Here, I can still smell him. I hug his pillow with one arm, the urn still cradled in the other.

How could they both have left me?

I feel that old fault line in my heart start to crack with my composure. I bury my face in my son's pillow as much to feel close to him as to muffle my cries.

I don't know how long I sit like this, but when I look up Kurt is in the doorway with the world in his eyes.

"I'm sorry, honey. Did you just get in?" I ask, imagining my hair a mess, eyes puffy, face blotchy, nose running. Of course, there are no Kleenex to be found in Finn's room.

I start to set down the pillow, to find a place to set the urn, to stand. But Kurt motions me to keep everything.

He comes in and kisses the top of my head. "Night, Carole. Love you."

I suppose this isn't such an unusual scene for him. I moved from one house of ghosts to another.

"I love you too, Kurt. You haven't heard from Finn, have you?"

His eyes cloud. "No. Not yet."

_Not yet_. Bless his heart.

Maybe tomorrow…


	7. Chapter 7

**Prompt: **Write in a genre or voice you are not comfortable in

**Characters: **Quinn, Puck & Beth

**Words: **754

I never spend more than a few hours away from Beth until I am hospitalized for three weeks.

Two seconds of inattention, and I'm flat on my back. Unable to feel my legs.

From what I've been able to gather, it's the Puck & Judy Show at home. Mom has Beth until Puck takes over after school for a few hours (so she can check in with me). She tries to be back in time to feed Beth dinner, even though apparently Puck keeps insisting that he can cook.

Sounds like they have everything figured out. Puck even calls every afternoon, so Beth can talk to me. She babbles mostly, but I love hearing her voice.

I just don't have time for this. I need to get home to her.

* * *

Puck has to carry me in when I finally come home. Because of the stairs. And the wheelchair that I'd hoped to leave at the hospital is waiting for me, having been brought in first.

After getting settled, I turn slowly (the thick carpeting is doing me no favors, and I wish for the smooth linoleum of the hospital for a heartbeat). Mom is holding Beth, who regards me seriously and not without apprehension.

I try to set her at ease with a smile and a "Hey Bug…"

She shrinks away, burying her face in Mom's shoulder.

* * *

It's a relief when Puck suggests a walk, just the three of us. He takes Beth from my mom, and crouches in front of me.

"Look what Mommy got at the hospital!" he whispers. He touches the wheels and the metal frame, setting her in front of it. "This is so cool! It's a stroller, just like Bethie's!"

"Puck!"

"What? She doesn't know what a wheelchair is!"

Beth inspects the wheel that is just about as tall as she is, before looking at me for the first time. "'Roller?" she asks, nodding her head.

"You better believe it! Wanna go outside in Mommy's stroller?"

And then, her arms extend toward me. "Up?"

And while it kills me to not be able to scoop her up myself yet, when Puck settles her on my lap, it is the best moment.

Puck takes us through to the back door, where he does slow laps with the two of us around the deck.

I breathe in her sweet scent.

* * *

It's not easy. There are no how-to manuals to learn how to parent from a wheelchair. A Google search turns up disappointingly few tips.

Everything from changing her diaper to her outfit requires much more partnership and patience on Beth's part now. (My mom almost loses it, seeing Beth climb up on the solid oak coffee table, diaper in hand so I could change her. She still wants to control everything.)

The day Beth comes to me crying after closing her fingers in her toy box is a low point. She wants me to pick her up for cuddles, but I'm still not cleared to lift anything. I kiss each of her fingers and then her cheeks. Soon, I'm crying too.

* * *

The next morning, it's a Saturday. I hear Beth in the kitchen and know that Mom got up before me. I smell pancakes and sausage. If I keep my eyes closed, this is just a normal day. No accident, no injury.

I lay there until I hear Beth come into my room. She always looks so adorable in the morning, sleep-tossed hair and pink footie pajamas.

"Morning, Bug! How are you?"

"Pancakes, Mom!" she chirps excitedly.

"Mmm, I love pancakes! Should we have some?"

"Yeah!"

She's gone in a flash, feet pattering. I smile after her and start thinking about sitting up.

Beth's coming back down the hall with some sort of toy this time. I wish I had her energy. I see that she's pushing her pink doll stroller. With some effort, she guides it into my room.

"Bug, where's your baby? Did you leave her in here?"

"No," she waves her hand in a comically dismissive way. "Come on, Mom! I push you!"

I laugh, "Oh _thank you_, Bug! Do you think I can fit?"

She says "Yes," with all the seriousness of every doctor I've seen in the past two months.

I grab my phone off my bedside table and snap a picture of Beth standing expectantly by her stroller. I send it to Puck with the message, _Our daughter has come to chauffer me to breakfast. _

God, I love her so much.


	8. Chapter 8

**Prompt: **Ransacked

**Character:** Ryder

**Words: **502

**Warning: **Allusions to sexual abuse

He has never been more grateful for the darkness.

They don't get it. Of course they don't. How could they?

He wouldn't want them to really get it anyway.

He hardly gets it himself. Has tried not to think about it. But high school is nothing if not a series of attractions and maybe even relationships. And the thought of having a girl. A woman. A _person_ that close to him? That makes him remember.

Back to that first time. (Because itdidn'tjusthappenonce.) Back to crossing days off his calendar until his thirteenth birthday, because that's the age his parents had arbitrarily decided he would be mature enough to start staying home alone.

Until then? He didn't lock the bathroom door or avoid showering or any of the things that made sense. He just…let her.

He's not comfortable with people touching him. Even now. Even if it's his mom. If he expects it or initiates it, it's better. But always, there is that first moment. Where he just freezes.

And then yields.

He doesn't feel normal.

When he kisses Marley, it's nice. (Aside from the fact that he's kissing his best friend's girl.) It's just…his brain goes to this other place.

This white place.

He goes through the motions. He knows how to kiss. He just doesn't know how it's _supposed _to feel. Because all he feels is stuck. All he feels is nothing. All he feels is blinding white.

That's why Katie is so great. She's everything he's attracted to. (Wholesome in a hot way. Loves food. And animals. She's an awesome listener. And she's safe.)

He really should look into internet wives. When he's ready to settle down, that is.

Because it turns out Katie isn't all that perfect. She isn't who she says she is. She's someone in glee using a girl named Marissa's picture.

She deceived him. She could easily betray him, having the ammunition of the biggest secret of his life in her possession. It's some sick game to her, and yet he's still coming back.

She has forced his hand. Compelled his confession through her misrepresentation. And now? Now everyone in glee knows.

Mr. Schuester is reporting it. Reporting _him_.

His parents will find out. (He feels cold.)

He feels used. And that? That feels normal.

He has no control over anything. That feels normal too.

He goes to the locker room after glee. Strips in the shadows and steps under the unrelenting spray of the shower.

Even in the near-darkness, he feels exposed. Tense. Ready. And finally? Compliant.

He stands. Lets out a long breath.

His arms weigh an obscene amount, but he picks up the soap. Holds it. Can't bring himself to use it.

Scrubbing seems like an exercise in futility at this point. So, he stands some more.

Closing his eyes, he hears it. She whispers, but the words ring in his head like three balloons popping in rapid succession. Like gunshots.

"_Hey… Ryder…"_

He closes his eyes.

And all he sees is white.


	9. Chapter 9

**Prompt:** An Unexpected Goodbye

**Character: **Rachel

**Words: **914

It steals into her like a lover, kissing her palm with a fierceness that leaves it aching. She's moon-eyed as it caresses her into a blissful numbness. Its presence fills her to bursting while robbing her of all speech and movement.

Before she knows it, she's vomiting on the floor of a classroom.

_West Side Story rehearsals start tonight_, she thinks as she is rolled out of McKinley on a stretcher.

_I don't think I'll be able to make it._

* * *

It has ravaged her. Truly great lovers do that.

Her head throbs. It seems half of her body - precisely to the midline - has been dosed with Novocain. Half her scalp, one ear, half her nose, mouth, lips and tongue, on down her arm, all the way to the tips of her fingers and toes.

It's curious.

Sitting up means being in a storm-tossed boat at sea. The vertigo she feels is so intense that she very unglamorously throws up on some poor woman who had come to assess her speaking ability. (She'd been planning to ace the test too - elocution having been one of many strong suits.)

She's learning quickly that her body has a mind of its own these days.

* * *

The pretense she's wrapped around her like a heavy blanket is ripped away the first time she asks for a mirror.

A patch of hair the size of her hand has been shaved. She cannot see the scar from this head-on vantage point, but she has been told of its existence - so long it has to be held together with seventeen silver staples. Her dad tells her (again, but she really listens this time) that a tangle of blood vessels in her brain had burst and that she'd needed emergency surgery to save her life.

Two thoughts occur simultaneously.

_No_

and

_What life?_

* * *

Therapy and assessments in all their forms are torture for an over-achiever like herself. There is apparently a therapy for everything, even how to get dressed (in sweat suits) and shower.

She fails the eye test spectacularly. Not because she cannot _see_ the letters, but because she cannot _name _half of them.

She fails the alphabetizing task because her brain seems to no longer filter when reading.

She even fails at counting change, not being able to hold onto the values of each coin while adding another of the same or different value to it.

That first day, she breaks down in the hallway afterward.

But she goes back, learning to walk, strengthening her hand until she's able to shakily kindergarten-scrawl _Rachel _across a blank page and tie her shoes. (Tennis shoes, not flats.) She even gets to cook and bake.

* * *

She feels she's making progress until she heads back to McKinley two months after she left in an ambulance.

Her hair is still a disaster, though she refuses to cut it all short. The result is spikes of the shaved area poking through the remaining flap of hair on the right side of her head. It looks lopsided and horrible, but at least it covers the scar. She's still wearing sweat suits because they're easy and she's _not_ about to let her dads help her get dressed in the morning, so clasps and buttons and fashion will have to wait until she has mastered them. High-top tennis shoes for extra support, plus a leg brace.

No wonder students are hesitant to approach her. (And when Tina finally does, it's to discreetly tell her that she needs to wipe her chin. Because she'd been drooling and hadn't realized it due to the ever-present numbness.)

The devastation continues when she realizes it takes too much concentration to both stand _and _sing in glee. Even when she sits, her voice comes out thin and barely audible, her range and breath support destroyed.

* * *

Blaine asks her to come to the play on opening night, but nothing could've kept her away. It appears that the persuasive powers of Artie, Miss Pillsbury and Coach Beiste (or maybe just her own absence) have convinced Mercedes to take the role of Maria.

_Her_ role.

A chasm is opening itself up in her chest as she watches Mercedes bring Maria to life. She has never been confined to the audience during a school production. The loss she feels is gaping, raw and hungry for still more misery. Her dads flank her, both holding her unaffected hand, the numb one still too prone to pins and needles for contact.

She breathes as Blaine's Tony and Mercedes' Maria sing Tonight and One Hand One Heart. Each note digs itself a little deeper into her, weighing her down. After the first act, she sits blankly while her dads clap with enthusiasm.

During intermission, Daddy admonishes her gently. "Support your classmates, honey. Not clapping for them is rude."

So, after Mercedes opens Act II with I Feel Pretty, Rachel begins to clap. She hasn't done this since _before_, and it feels awkward. She finds herself looking down, making sure her hands make contact with each other.

And each time they do, a new burst of pins and needles course through her hand.

She steels herself and keeps clapping, sluggish and out-of-sync with the audience at large.

The stage is not hers anymore. But the loss of it, like the loss of herself, clings like an oversized plant burr where her heart should be, ripping her open a little more with each merciless beat.


	10. Chapter 10

**Prompt: **A new hair color

**Characters: **Blaine, Sam, Unique, Marley & Brad

**Warnings:** Violence, Drugging a minor

**Words: **1402

After they sing Marley's song, Brad enlists the four of them to help him move an old upright piano into his cargo van. (Sue had inexplicably needed it as a prop in a photo shoot designed to break her into the world of personal trainers.)

He thanks the kids for their help, then:

"Do you kids need rides home? I could use a hand getting this into the house anyway, and I could drop you off afterward."

The rain had been unrelenting all week. Blaine, their usual chauffer, has his car in the shop. They'd planned to walk to make sure Unique got home okay, but a ride would be even safer. And dryer. Moving the piano inside will only take a few minutes.

And so they agree.

* * *

Rain is coming down in sheets by the time the piano is inside. Marley shivers and eagerly accepts a cup of tea while they wait for the storm to let up. Sam and Blaine have toweled off and taken their cups of hot chocolate downstairs to check out Brad's gaming system. When Unique has to use the bathroom, Brad tells her to follow the boys.

And he follows her.

* * *

"Bathroom's right through there," Brad directs.

"Thanks," Unique returns shyly. Then, through the door "Why is there no lock? Boys, this room is occupied until further notice!"

"Yeah, I'm sorry. Haven't gotten around to that yet - usually it's just me down here. I'll stand watch for you."

But when she comes out a moment later, there's a knife at her back.

* * *

"Dude, you suck at this! You just TK'd me!" Sam yells as thunder cracks outside.

"I just did _what_?"

"Blaine, you _threw a grenade at me_, you psycho! When's the last time you played Call of Duty? You do realize I'm your teammate, and that it's generally frowned upon to explode me?"

"Um, this is like the second time I've played this, okay? Calm down." Seeing Unique enter the den with wide and confused eyes, Blaine offers her the controller. "Hey Unique, you want a turn?"

Brad steps up behind her, moving the knife to her throat. "Nobody move."

* * *

"_Shit_. What the hell, Brad?"

Blaine puts his hands up non-threateningly. "Sam, shut up."

From a drawer, Brad produces several pairs of plastic zip ties and instructs Blaine to put them on Sam's wrists and ankles, before directing Unique to do the same to Blaine.

Tears leak from Unique's eyes as she whispers, "What do you want?" The plastic ties bite into her wrists and ankles as Brad secures her.

He smiles darkly.

"She's upstairs."

* * *

Marley sips her tea, slowly beginning to warm up. The physical toll of helping to move the piano is catching up with her - her arms and legs weigh an incredible amount. She looks at the piano, and imagines being able to ask Brad to give her lessons. _Maybe someday,_ she thinks as she pillows her head on her arm and closes her eyes.

* * *

All the blood leaves Sam's face as he struggles against the restraints. "Damn it! Marley! _Marley! _Run!"

Brad regards Sam for a moment before reaching into the zip tie drawer for a pistol. Unique sobs as the gun comes down hard on the side of Sam's head. He slumps to the floor, blood darkening his hair.

Blaine closes his eyes.

* * *

Brad leaves, a lock clicking at the top of the stairs. Blaine and Unique stay frozen for a moment before scooting to Sam's side. Unique checks his breathing while Blaine looks at the wound in Sam's hairline as well as the security bars on the windows.

Sam moans just as water starts seeping into the room.

* * *

"Sam? Honey, are you okay?" Unique asks, touching his face hesitantly.

"Mmm… My head…" Blaine and Unique exchange glances at the sound of Evan's Australian accent. "Where's Sam? Is he okay?"

"He's fine. How are you?" Blaine presses.

"Been better." Evan brings both bound hands up, intent on probing his head, frowning as he notices the water dripping from his fingers as well as the zip ties.

"Blaine, check my pockets."

"Your…pockets?"

"Yes, come on, mate."

Uncomfortably, Blaine goes through Evan's pockets, coming up eventually with a small pocketknife.

"Ah, you beauty! Thank you!"

Blaine carefully cuts off Unique and Evan's restraints, and lets Unique free him from his.

* * *

Unique sloshes through several inches of water, then climbs the stairs, a spare hair pin in her hand.

Blaine settles Sam on the pool table, who is white and still after all the movement, then takes off after her. He reaches her just as the lock clicks open and grabs her arm. "No, Unique! Please, stay with Sam and call 911. I'll find Marley, I promise."

"She's my best friend," her voice breaks.

"And Sam's mine. Take care of him for me, so I can find Marley for you."

* * *

Cautiously, Blaine eases the door at the top of the stairs open. The kitchen is empty, so he closes the door quietly, muffling the sound of water running downstairs. He swallows before creeping along the walls, avoiding the doorway to the living room until he has to peer around it.

Empty too. He breathes, legs shaky.

There are only so many places they could be, and so the hallway makes him nervous. He sees two doors, one closed with light showing through the crack at the bottom. As Blaine approaches it, he hears the shower running and prays they're not together.

The other door is ajar slightly, the only light coming from a lamp atop the piano in what looks like Brad's bedroom. He sees the glint from Marley's necklace in the dim glow as she slumps in a chair.

Heart in his throat, Blaine approaches her.

"Marley?" he whispers.

"Mmm…"

"Marley, we have to go. Come on!"

Her head lolls to the side. "He's writing a song about me," Marley slurs, barely discernible. "I feel funny."

"You know what? You'll feel better once you get out of here, okay?"

"Mm-kay."

"Do me a favor, Marley?" Blaine takes her face between his hands, staring at her glassy, heavy-lidded eyes. He points to the house visible through the raging storm, lights on and family sitting down to dinner in the picture window. "Go over to that house and knock on the door. Tell them you need help, okay?"

Marley nods slowly.

"Do you understand what I'm telling you? Go to the house with the people in it, and don't come out until I come for you. Do it now." He opens the front door, and sends her out into the howling wind, watching her disappear into the rain. He shuts it, praying for Marley's safety and sense of direction.

Exhaling, Blaine turns toward the kitchen, intent to check on Sam and Unique.

"How'd _you_ get out? Marley?!"

* * *

Backlit by the bathroom light, Blaine can clearly see the pistol in Brad's hand. Blaine takes off for the basement, and the gun goes off too near his head. Ears ringing, he runs downstairs slamming the door behind him.

The water has risen substantially in his absence, almost to his waist.

And the pool table is empty.

A wave of dizziness hits Blaine. A hand to his ear comes away sticky with blood, and he wades numbly to the last place he'd left his friends.

"Sam! Unique! Evan! Oh my God! I can't hear you guys! Where are you?" All he can do is scan the dark water and wait, anxiety climbing the ladder of his ribcage.

He crawls onto the table, guilt an anchor around his neck. A sob is caught at the base of his throat when a hand drops into his line of vision.

It looks like the hand of an angel.

It's Sam's.

Inexplicably, he and Unique are lying prone on separate rafters - Unique apparently talking into her cell phone, and Sam still sheet-white, the side of his head oozing blood. Gripping Sam's hand tightly, Blaine launches himself toward an empty section of wooden beam.

They wait here, Unique sending Blaine text messages that the police are on-scene, that Marley is safe, that Brad is in custody.

Eventually officers come to the basement, and help them down from the beams.

The three of them sit on the pool table for a moment.

They breathe.

They hold onto each other.


	11. Chapter 11

**Prompt: **Reinvention

**Character: **Rachel

**Words: **528

**Note: **A sequel to An Unexpected Goodbye. Thank you to **pi-on-a-skateboard** for wanting to know more about Rachel.

She's begged her dads to reschedule her senior pictures, and they have obliged twice now.

But senior year is nearly over, and Daddy has been saying "It's time" with the same urgency of a woman going into labor.

So, she closes her eyes as she settles in the chair in front of her vanity mirror. Eye contact with herself has been difficult lately. It requires mental preparation. She breathes and holds onto the chair with both hands, feeling off-balance.

The sensation has not returned in the side of her body that was affected by the hemorrhage. Not for lack of trying either. A torture device disguised as a soft-bristled toothbrush is used as often as she can stand. She brushes her hand and fingers hoping to reawaken the nerves, gritting her teeth against the rush of pins and needles so overwhelming they are almost unbearable.

So, she grips the chair until she imagines herself with white knuckles, because that's the amount of pressure needed to trigger the proprioception in her hand, letting her know that she is _actually _holding it. She plants her foot as firmly as she dares, praying for stability.

New Directions had performed at a pep assembly recently. She hadn't even been able to handle swaying while singing. She'd ended up clinging to Tina, who wordlessly put a steadying arm around her waist as Rachel used all of her energy staying upright, reduced to soundlessly mouthing the lyrics.

She is a liability now. She can see it in Mr. Schuester's furrowed brow - his attempts to come up with choreography that will keep them competitive enough for Nationals that Rachel, a former award-winning dancer, can handle.

To lose because of her will _not _happen. She has invested too much. They have more than enough people to compete without her.

She's not even really singing anymore, and a group like New Directions is only as good as their weakest member. They are _better_ without her.

Rachel opens her eyes, still avoiding the mirror. The truth sits on her chest, breathing its fetid wisdom into her pores.

She is quitting glee.

Some losses go beyond tears. She's been beyond them for months now.

Because this loss just keeps stealing. Her essence. Her identity. Her passion. Her joy.

Her future.

It's a hand at her throat that keeps her gasping.

It's fatigue as thick as a warm, welcoming, black quicksand.

It's a sharp intake of breath and knowing she'll never be able to sigh in relief.

It's ragged edges around the gaping hole in her chest.

It's the claws of depression, sinking and catching.

It's being wrapped in the cotton of indifference, separated from _feeling anything _except the blinding pain of the headaches.

Rachel steels herself and meets her gaze in the mirror. Finally.

One eye is a bit sluggish, she notices. Of course, she notices.

She bites her lip, feeling them tingle on one side, and then smiles. It's still crooked, one side of her mouth not as high as the other. The smile line under one eye is clearly lax. Only her nose is still symmetrical.

She smiles harder, empty inside, as her face betrays her.


	12. Chapter 12

**Prompt: **Set whatever you write in Season 2

**Character: **Kurt

**Words: **565

_Saturday, 7 October 2010_

_Dad's coming home tomorrow. Thank god. _

_It's late. I'm trying to think of every eventuality. I've done a marathon shopping trip for groceries, as I assume it will be difficult to get away once he's here. The couch is set up until he is well enough to climb stairs. The nurse is coming at 2 tomorrow to get the IV started. _

_Carole has tried to step in._

_I know she's trying to help, but we're used to taking care of each other. _

_What can I say? I'm possessive. My family is small, and I don't trust it to just anybody - no matter how well-meaning. _

_I can handle this._

* * *

_NOTE: _

_ONCE DAD'S SETTLED, CALL CAROLE FOR SHORT VISIT. 3 PM?_

* * *

_Sunday, 8 October 2010_

_He's home._

_I'm terrified. _

_Those two steps leading into the house from the garage? Those have to go. He's so weak and pale, and the doorway is so narrow. I managed to hold his waist from behind, but he still clung to the doorframe. Damn it, he had to sit down as soon as he got into the kitchen. I've never seen him like this._

_The couch never seemed further away. A mirage in the desert that, try as we might, we could not cover enough distance to approach. Once we got there, he fell asleep immediately. _

_I should've thought to cook in advance and freeze it. Soup's on the stove now, and I'm in the chair across from the couch, watching him sleep._

_I'm exhausted. _

_I don't want to think about all a trip to the bathroom will entail. _

_I don't want to close my eyes._

* * *

_NOTE:_

_ASK ARTIE ABOUT RAMP CONSTRUCTION. $, TIME, MATERIALS, ETC._

* * *

_NOTE: _

_THANK YOU NOTE - CAROLE - CASSEROLE._

* * *

_Monday, 9 October 2010_

_It's 1 a.m. I'm freaking out. I have school in 7 hours. The first time I've left him since he's been home. He's insisting I go._

_The nurse will be here. But I won't be. _

_Breathe._

* * *

_I miss you, Mom. Wish you were here. We need you._

* * *

_Monday, 9 October 2010 - PM_

_House is still standing. Dad seems okay, relatively speaking. Trying a new soup recipe tomorrow. Attempting homework now._

* * *

_NOTE:_

_SET COFFEEMAKER TO BREW AUTOMATICALLY IF YOU WANT TO FUNCTION AS A HUMAN BEING TOMORROW!_

* * *

_Tuesday, 10 October 2010_

_Thank god for glee club. Such a lovely distraction in the form of one Sam Evans today. Maybe thinking about him will be enough to stave off the nightmares tonight - or perhaps he'll show up beside me with a flashlight or a candle to illuminate the shadows of my subconscious._

_Here's to hoping._

* * *

_NOTE: _

_SEND SAM MP3s._

* * *

_Thursday, 12 October 2010_

_I wonder when I'll be able to take a full breath again? _

_We're into a routine now, which is helpful, but it's like hyper vigilance is my default state. Dad's starting to get stir-crazy, but he's still too weak to move unassisted from the couch. The trip to the bathroom still exhausts him. Just today, we had an actual conversation. He asked about me. Up until tonight, he just didn't have the energy._

_I have to lay off Sam. _

_He's a fantasy, and I am inundated with reality._

_Just breathe. _

_Let it go._

* * *

_NOTE:_

_CHECK THAT MORTGAGE PAYMENT, ELECTRIC, WATER ETC WENT THROUGH._


	13. Chapter 13

**Prompt: **Everybody's got a secret…but what happens when it all comes out?

**Characters: **Unique and Ryder

**Words: **607

**Warning: **Allusions to sexual abuse

Being Katie is perfect in so many ways.

It's not honest on one hand. But on the other hand, it's a truer picture of herself than the body she's been imprisoned in since birth.

She's finally able to have a relationship with a guy. Something she thought of as unreachable. At best, something she'd have to wait until the distant future for, _if _she was miraculously able to put together the money she'd need to transition.

Yes, it's selfish.

It is also so, _so _freeing, connecting with another human soul this way.

Ryder teasingly calls theirs a "textlationship," but it goes deeper than that. Is there flirting? Oh my God, yes. But he is also the person she reaches out to when the night closes around her. When the depth and ache of loneliness threatens to drown her. When everything feels hopeless. His reassurance and support is immediate and unwavering.

As Katie, she had even been able to talk him through a very hurtful phase where he insisted on misgendering her.

It's been like the best dream.

Until tonight.

Ryder's been quiet lately. Moody. But she is just _not prepared_.

She reads the message again. The dyslexia coupled with the emotion behind it makes it more difficult to decipher than usual.

_I need to tell u sumthing. I have never said this befor to any one. I no I havent ben as open with u as u have with Me but You are the closest person to me and I just cant live like this any more I feel like I cant breath. You say u have Secrets. I do to. I dont trust ppl eazily and this is why. When I was 11 my Babysitter touched me. I am prity messed up by it I think. I dont no why Im telling You this. I just need to tell Some one. And I think I can trust You._

**Sent by ryder_lynn at 12:48 a.m.**

It's as if her chest has been cracked wide as a gaping mouth. Her heart throbs, exposed as it is to a world as cruel as this. Hot tears drop off her face as she opens a new message.

_I am so, so sorry that you have had to go through that, Ryder. It makes my heart hurt. I am glad you told me, and I hope that you're safe now._

_I have never been through something like that. I cannot imagine your pain. Abuse like what you've told me about is one of my worst fears, and a very real fear for a girl like me. _

_Your strength and kindness is so inspiring. So just try to breathe, babe. You're amazing. _

_You can always trust me. I'm here if you need to talk._

_Xoxo,_

_Katie_

**Sent by katie_xoxo at 1:01 a.m.**

She closes her eyes. Prays that, no matter what, Ryder never learns what she's doing. It would hurt him more deeply than she could have ever imagined. Rereading the last lines she sent, she cringes. Because on one hand, he can trust her with this, with anything. She is nothing if not fiercely loyal. But on the other hand, he can't trust her at all.

Her phone chirps with an incoming text, and she automatically changes the settings so it's on vibrate, listening for the telltale squeaky floorboard. The last thing she needs right now is to deal with her father, irritated that she woke her mother by keeping late hours.

Hearing nothing, she turns back to her phone.

_1 New Message_

_From R_

She breathes. Opens the text. And her heart twinges guiltily as she reads,

_Thank You Katie. _


	14. Chapter 14

**Prompt: **Music in all its forms is illegal. Singing and the use of instruments is highly punishable. What lengths does your character(s) or club go to to perform? Or do they choose to live in a world without music?

**Characters: **Mike & New Directions

**Words: **853

It takes months to get the shoes.

* * *

_When he slips Puck the scrap of paper, he receives a hard stare._

"_That'll cost extra," Puck warns. Mike watches as Puck lights the paper on fire, obliterating its existence. _

_Mike glances around the alley before shaking hands with Puck, slipping a roll of hundred dollar bills into his palm._

* * *

While he waits, he practices in the dead of night - bare feet brushing the carpet of his bedroom soundlessly. The government-issue footwear are little more than slippers, but he eschews even these for now.

* * *

Santana does the drop-off. She walks boldly by his parents, arms full of books. In his bedroom, she locks them in before pulling the bottom book from the stack. It's a tome, really. He has never seen a book so large. She meets his eyes. "I found that information you were looking for."

Cracking the huge spine, he opens the volume. Inside, the pages are hollowed out to create space for a pair of old, black hard-soled shoes.

He gently closes the tome, and runs his fingers over the cover. "Yes, thank you. This is helpful."

* * *

The hot glue is a controlled substance. One Kurt has access because of his job making government seals for official mail. He walks behind the shop, leaving his apron on a trash can, before reaching in his pocket for a cigarette. "One minute," Kurt warns under his breath. His fingers tremble as he lights up and inhales deeply, walking toward the sunshine and away from the shadows.

Mike stays crouched behind the trash can, reaching a hand into the apron pocket. His hand closes around the hot glue gun. Quickly, he unzips his backpack and unearths the hollowed-out tome. He flips the shoes upside-down, revealing the soles, and then he reaches into his pocket for a handful of pennies. With the glue, he attaches fourteen to each shoe. Eight right beneath the toes, and six on the heel. He slips the gun back into the apron.

Sweat drips off his forehead as Mike counts the seconds on his watch, waiting for the glue to set.

He is slipping the book back into his bag as Kurt walks by again. He ties the apron strings, and says "Good luck" to the seemingly empty alley before going back inside.

* * *

On his way home, he is grabbed. His heart clamors in his chest, and he steadies himself on the rough wall automatically. He has to protect his shoes.

His eyes adjust to yet another alley, and then he hears her rasp. "Don't do this."

She is a shadow of herself, skin sallow and stretched across the bones of her face. Her hair is an uneven do-it-yourself pixie cut. With the baseball cap and the nondescript sweatshirt, baggy jeans and government slippers so old they're practically falling off her feet, she easily passes for a street kid. A dirty twelve year old boy. Not Rachel Berry.

"I know what you're planning. Don't do it. It's not worth it." She is grasping at him desperately, and he is trying not to appear visibly repulsed by her smell.

Rachel had been the first to break the music ban. Had it only been three months ago? She had been hunted down and captured, forced to live on the streets after a surgery that left her with a thready whisper of a voice.

He presses the rest of the change from his pocket into her small, filthy hand. "It'll be okay."

But as he leaves the alley, he is shaking.

* * *

He shows up in the warehouse two nights later. Lauren and Artie have both their phones set up to record, just in case. Puck and his brother Jake are playing lookout.

He's dressed head to toe in black, wearing a white tragedy mask and his improvised tap shoes. His partner-in-crime is similarly dressed - all black, government shoes, and a comedy mask. They both cover their heads with the hoods of their sweatshirts.

He squeezes Tina's hand before giving a nod to Lauren and Artie. They nod back, indicating that they are recording.

Mike takes a breath, and taps out several measures of a familiar rhythm. He can feel Tina smile behind the wide fake grin of her mask.

"_I've got my ticket for the long way 'round…"_

He taps, she sings.

In less than two minutes, it's over.

As soon as Lauren and Artie send the song to the first person on their clandestine list of listeners, they toss them into trash bags along with the masks, clothes - even the shoes. Puck and Jake will take care of weighing them down before tossing them into the Ottawa River.

The song will spread, listened to in secret and then deleted, and then in three months or nine or twelve, there will be another song. Maybe Blaine's. Maybe Quinn's. He doesn't know.

He does know that the next time he sees Rachel in the street, her eyes are shining. She clutches a grimy plastic cup. When she panhandles, the loose change inside it jingles, making her sway.


	15. Chapter 15

**Prompt: **A moment that changed a life forever

**Character: **Sam & the Warblers

**Words: **808

The last few months have sucked, if he's being honest. The motel was okay at first, but he had been looking at it as a temporary thing.

It's been three months.

Public assistance isn't much. The can of Spaghetti-Os or package of Ramen is inevitably split between his brother and sister each night. His parents miss meals more often than not. So does he.

His dad pulled him aside the other day, uncharacteristically unable to meet his eye. "Sam… Can you spot me some money? Just enough to cover the next few nights? The forecast says it's supposed to snow." His eyes flicker out the window to the family car knowingly, defeat clinging to him. "I'll pay you back, son. Just as soon as I'm able."

Ohio is cold in March, even without snow.

"I'll take care of it."

* * *

He feels off-balance without the familiar weight of the guitar case, and there is a pit in his stomach.

Forty dollars.

Less than half of what they need for a single night in the motel.

* * *

The taste of desperation is sharp and metallic. He swallows.

Getting out of his car, he checks his surroundings automatically. He'd already been mugged twice on the job. He can't afford that tonight.

It'd been a slow night. Stiffed on the tip on his first delivery, and less than a dollar for his second.

He walks carefully up the slippery walkway with a stack of pizzas. His mouth waters as the intoxicating scent of melted cheese, tomato sauce and pepperoni wafts upward. Swaying a little, he manages to knock on the door.

* * *

The door is opened, and he is hit with a wave of warm air. Squinting in the golden light and not looking at the opulence of the room, he instead focuses on the receipt. "That'll be $86.40."

"Sam?"

"Yeah?" he asks, busy actively avoiding the kid's eyes. He can almost smell the privilege on him.

Silence makes him really look at the kid. He hasn't gotten the money yet, and if this will speed things up, then so be it.

It's Kurt.

* * *

He finds himself pulled inside as the others in the common room are searching for money for the bill.

Vaguely irritated, he stands waiting, unwilling to relinquish the stack of pizzas until he's been paid.

Kurt seems hell-bent on catching up, peppering him with questions. How is he? How is everyone at McKinley? How long has he been delivering pizzas?

"Yeah, McKinley's good. Glee club misses you," he adds dutifully. "Had the job for a few months now." He stops himself just short of, "It pays the bills" because it doesn't. Not really.

"It's late. Do you always work so late?" Outside the window, a few errant snowflakes begin to fall.

"I don't know. Look, it's been great catching up and all that, but I really need to get going." The kids in this place seem intent on taking as much time as possible. There's even a dude behind a table with a calculator. The car is looking like less of an option and more of a certainty with every passing moment. He closes his eyes.

When he opens them, Kurt's forehead is furrowed. "Are you okay, Sam?"

He can't help the barking laugh that escapes. What can he say? _I'm exhausted. I can't tell you the last time I've eaten dinner. Or breakfast, for that matter. My family is a breath away from living in a car. They're looking to me and this crappy job to make sure that doesn't happen, and you and your friends won't even settle the stupid bill. But other than that? Oh yeah, things are great._

With a start, he realizes that all eyes are on him.

Crap, he totally said that out loud, didn't he?

Wordlessly, Kurt turns his back and goes to confer with the kid behind the table. Pretty soon, the whole group is there. A moment later, the kid behind the table walks up to him, Kurt a step behind.

"Sorry to have kept you waiting. Have a good night," the kid said, handing him a hundred dollar bill, as well as another hundred in twenties.

"Wait, there's an extra hundred in here…" Sam tries to hand it back, but the kid is already walking back to the table.

Kurt starts taking the pizzas, leaving the bottom one in his hands. "Take that to your family. It was really good to see you."

Sam sets the pizza aside. He shakes the hand of every kid in the room, looking them in the eye. The handshake with Kurt turns into a hug. He finally manages to speak. "Good to see you too."

Picking up the box again, he looks around the room. "Thank you."

He leaves, the pizza warming his hands as the snow falls around him.


	16. Chapter 16

**Prompt: **the hill-top tree by the gated ways

**Character: **Mercedes

**Words: **534

God hasn't followed her to L.A.

Nobody has.

Yes, she knows the arguments. God is within her. God is everywhere.

She's seen on Facebook that Puck is here somewhere, not that she has a prayer of tracking him down in a city of ten million people.

It's just that the City of Angels feels like a spiritual wasteland. She hasn't found a church yet. To be honest, she's afraid to try. Will an L.A. church feel as fake, as artificial as the rest of this godforsaken place?

So, it's Sunday. And she's still in bed. Grabbing her laptop and phone, she checks for messages from Ohio. Or New York. Or Connecticut. Or Illinois. Or Kentucky. There's nothing, though. Probably still sleeping. And her parents are no doubt enjoying the fellowship of their home church at this very moment. Her heart twinges painfully.

Her attempt at a morning prayer just means listening to sirens outside her window. Better than acknowledging the emptiness of the studio apartment - filled with just her bed and a card table. And roaches.

It is remembering their presence that gets her moving. She has shoes everywhere - a pair beside her bed, just inside the bathroom door (because you'd better believe she doesn't shower barefoot anymore), and just inside the door to her apartment. Then there are those that have been cast to odd corners, on their sides and without mates, reduced to a solitary existence as a weapon.

She hurries through a shower, only to spend an hour on her hair, make-up and clothes. Presentation matters here. You never know who you'll run into, and she already has several strikes against her, not being tall or blonde or thin. So, even this walk to Starbucks requires all her attention to detail.

Finally outside, she sticks her ear buds in her ears. They're an accessory, nothing more. She hasn't listened to music since her first night here. It reminds her too much of home. And work. Politics. Perfection. Unattainable stuff. So, she breathes in the stink of hot asphalt and chemicals and her soul rotting and starts walking. The din of traffic is constant. Sunglasses are a must not only for the relentless glare, but to tone down the fluorescence of every shop and sign she passes.

Thankfully, there's a coffee shop on every corner here. Convenient, but as always, she misses the drive to the Lima Bean. Even on a Sunday, the Starbucks is bustling. She knows now to have her drink order ready to spit out the second it's her turn at the counter. Hesitation means disgusted sighs, rude exclamations, sometimes even being nudged aside, and having to go back to the end of the queue.

She doesn't have a usual. Not here.

Strawberries & Crème Frappuccino. Shaken Iced Passion Tea Lemonade. Iced White Mocha. Coffee of the Day. Chocolate Smoothie.

Today? "Solo Espresso Con Panna" rolls off her tongue, clipped and cool.

"Name?" the barista asks as she runs her card through the machine.

"Quinn."

She watches as the name is scrawled on the cup, and it gives her a moment's comfort.

She's almost to the end of the roster.

Will she have found herself by then?


	17. Chapter 17

**Prompt: **Vacation

**Characters: **Sam & Mercedes

**Words: **2029

When Sam comes back from New York, it takes a few hours to locate his family. They aren't registered at the motel anymore, and he has a moment of panic. (And guilt too. He'd done odd jobs for Mr. Schuester to offset the cost of the trip, so it's not that. It's that they depended on what he made in tips delivering pizza, and between final rehearsals and then the trip, he hadn't been working. And his family isn't where he left them.)

He meets up with his mom outside Stevie and Stacey's school. Finds out that they hadn't been able to make ends meet in the last few days. That they'd spent the last few nights in the car. (The shelter had been full.)

The disappointment of a 12th place finish at Nationals feels frivolous.

It's Sunday. His dad's unemployment check doesn't come until Friday. Sam isn't scheduled at Fat Jack's until Tuesday.

He greets his siblings with hugs and tickles, his chest heavy with hopelessness.

* * *

The thing about the weekend, Sunday in particular, is that churches sometimes feed people.

This is how they end up at Mercedes' place of worship, eating a home-cooked meal.

As they stand to leave, they are stopped by Mercedes and who Sam assumes are her parents.

The man speaks, introduces himself as Dr. Joseph Jones (but call him Joe) and his wife as Patrice. "Our daughter, Mercedes, goes to school with Sam."

Sam stiffens automatically, barely hearing his dad make introductions. This is so much more awkward with the specter of the car looming in the parking lot.

"You have a lovely family. My daughter mentioned you all having financial difficulties, and we were wondering if you would do us the honor of staying with us for awhile, until you got on your feet again?" Joe's gaze is direct and unflinching.

Sam can see that his dad is about to politely decline, a rote response, but his mom is pretty much white-knuckling his dad's hand. He's pretty sure she's not even _breathing_ in the face of such unthinkable kindness, afraid that the slightest disturbance in the air will cause the offer to evaporate.

"Uh… I don't know what to say. We really appreciate that, but we wouldn't want to put you out…"

Patrice jumps in for the first time. "Mr. Evans - Dwight - our son Marcus is overseas right now, plus we have a guest room. It would be lovely to have you."

Sam notices how he's not breathing either. How all eyes are on his dad.

"Well, I'm not in a position right now to pay you, but if you need any work done around the house, I'd be happy to help. If you're sure."

"Me too," Sam nods, and the kids echo him, breaking the tension. There is laughter and handshakes all around. His mom has tears in her eyes, and Patrice envelopes her in a tight hug.

Mercedes smiles shyly in Sam's direction. He takes it as an invitation to speak. "Thank you. You don't know… Just…" he exhales and tries again, a shaky smile on his face. "…Are you ready for this?"

Mercedes smiles back. "Definitely."

* * *

His family has moving down to a science. Checking in and out of the American Family Motel countless times over the past five months or so have streamlined their process. So has their lack of non-essentials.

When the Joneses comment on this, Stevie throws them a bright smile. "We're nomadic. We're used to it."

It turns out that the entire lower level of the house is to be theirs for the foreseeable future. There's a family room with a TV, a computer and a fireplace, a bathroom with a shower, the laundry room and the two bedrooms. One is floral with a rosewood vanity and dresser. The other, belonging to Marcus, is austere - white walls, navy bedspread, simple chest of drawers and neat as a pin.

Sam's parents take the guest room, and the kids take Marcus's. Sam takes the pull out couch. Before bed that night, his dad calls a family meeting in Sam's new bedroom.

"This is a very nice thing that this family has done for us. Be sure you say thank you as often as you can. Show gratitude by picking up after yourself and by asking if you can help doing anything. Stevie and Stacey, be very careful in that bedroom. Respect the property. Play quietly. No loud music. Take short showers and always ask before you take a snack. Only take seconds at meals if they're offered. Sam, don't sleep late. We are guests here, guys. And if they ever want us to leave, either for the afternoon or because it's not working out, we leave only _after_ everything looks like it does right now or better, and we thank them again for their hospitality. Is that clear?"

"Yes, sir."

"We love you guys. This is only temporary." His dad kisses each of their heads, then walked toward the bathroom.

Sam hugs the rest of his family, waiting for them to leave before pulling out the couch and making it up with the pile of sheets, blankets and pillows Mercedes left. The mattress is thin, there is some sort of metal bar poking into his back and the springs are so loud he is afraid he will wake the whole house if he shifts.

But.

He is in a house. Warm and full.

And so he falls asleep almost as soon as his head hits the pillow.

* * *

It turns out that as scarce as Sam and his family try to make themselves, the Joneses will have none of it. Any protests are met with, "Don't be silly! You're family!" Mercedes and Patrice help with Stevie and Stacey, to free up Dwight and Mary for more applications and occasional interviews.

Sam looks for things to do, especially once school lets out and he's not scheduled at Fat Jack's. He does dishes and laundry; he mows the lawn. And when he runs out of things to do, he asks one of the Joneses what he can do to help.

One day, he asks Mercedes. She gazes at him in that thoughtful way of hers, and then says, "Come out and have coffee with me, Sam."

* * *

They hit the Lima Bean.

"Are you sure?" comes out of Sam like a nervous tic every time she takes a card out of her purse to pay for anything.

"I get Bean Bucks when I use this! There are deals on flavor shots and sometimes even free drinks! Yes, I'm sure, okay?" She smiles at him. And there's this spasm in his chest or something. He can't remember what he's supposed to be doing. Oh yeah. Breathing. Breathing would be good.

* * *

On a hot night in July, Mercedes tiptoes downstairs. She tries not to go there much at night to give the Evans family privacy, but the pull of the back patio is too inviting. She eases the screen door closed, and enjoys the warm breeze on her bare feet and calves.

A shape in the darkness moves. A glint of golden hair.

Of course. Sam's pull out is just inside. It makes sense that he would step out here for some peace and quiet. The house gets noisy with eight people in and out.

"Sorry, I didn't know anyone else was out here. I didn't mean to interrupt." She turns to go back inside, but then Sam's hand is on her shoulder.

"I'll go. It's your house, Mercedes."

"No, Sam, stop that. This is _our home_, and _you_ were here first, okay?"

"You could…stay."

So, she finds a lounge chair, still feeling the residual heat from Sam's hand on her shoulder. She turns it so they're sitting side by side, looking out at the expansive yard. "What are you doing up so late?"

He sighs, and his voice sounds hollow when he answers, "Sometimes…the house just…seems too big, you know? Guess I got used to smaller spaces - the motel, the car… I get nervous in there," he jerks his head back toward the house. "The last time my family lived in a house, we were forced to leave it. I guess…I'm used to moving, and we've been here _awhile_ now. It can't be easy for you or your parents, having five extra mouths to feed. Trust me, I know exactly how much that costs. …God, I sound so ungrateful. I'm just… I can't sleep… I'm sorry. You guys have been awesome."

She slips her hand into his and squeezes. "So have you guys. Trust me. We're not kicking you out. Even if it means Marcus has munchkin roommates when he comes back home. Even if things get hard - _especially _then. We're a family, Sam. You can relax here, I promise."

He squeezes back, breathing in her sweet scent. "Thank you. But I won't be able to relax until my parents find jobs."

* * *

At the end of the month, Dwight finds a job.

In Kentucky.

* * *

Sam's dad leaves immediately. His mom and the kids follow to start the house-hunt. Sam stays behind for the paycheck at Fat Jack's.

And for Mercedes a little bit.

* * *

He tries to sleep in both bedrooms while his family is gone, but the mattresses are too squishy and it's too quiet.

So he goes back to the pull out.

* * *

After work, he goes out to the patio. Mercedes is waiting.

They lay together on the chaise lounge. She talks about how quiet the house has been. He tells crazy customer stories.

"I'm going to miss you," she says finally.

"I'm going to miss _you. _And your family. And this," he kisses the end of her nose.

Then they don't talk anymore.

* * *

There's a barbecue at the end of August. An end-of-summer-goodbye-Sam type shindig. Mercedes can hardly stand it.

But then, he comes home (_home_) from his last day at Fat Jack's. And when he sees her with her parents on the crepe-papered deck, his face just lights up. His smiles are still more rare in frequency than she would like them, and this? This one is a thousand watts, easy.

"Hey guys! Wow! I guess I didn't need to bring these…" And for the first time, Mercedes notices the cardboard carrier with iced caramel lattes from the Lima Bean.

Their usual.

They sit down to ribs and corn on the cob and grilled vegetables. They pretend it's just like every other night, laughing and teasing and talking.

Not the last one.

* * *

That night, they hold each other on the patio. And then they start to move.

And she starts to sing.

"_And who do you think you are? Runnin' 'round leaving scars?"_

She feels him smile into her palm, before kissing it gently. "Our song…"

* * *

He packs quickly the next morning. Folds the bed back into a couch. Throws the sheets in to wash with some towels and washcloths. Cleans the bathroom. Vacuums once it's a reasonable hour. Walks through the bedrooms, making sure they're just as they were -right down to the military precision of Marcus's bed.

It looks the same. Maybe better.

He sighs and walks upstairs.

* * *

Joe shakes his hand in the driveway. Patrice hugs him so hard, he loses his breath for a second. She presses some banana bread and a Ziploc of homemade chocolate-chip cookies into his hands before kissing his cheek.

"You take care, Sam. Say hello to your parents and Stevie and Stacey for us, okay? We're going to miss you. Come see us if you're ever back this way," Joe instructs.

"Yes, sir. Thank you both so much for everything. You'll never know how much it means to us. And if you ever need anything, I'm just a phone call away."

Mercedes is waiting by the door to his car. He cracks a smile. "Thinking about tagging along?"

She chuckles brokenly. "Don't I wish."

They hold each other, breathe each other in.

She squeezes his hands. "Don't forget me?"

"That's not possible." His smile wavers the slightest bit. "Goodbye, Mercedes."

"Goodbye, Sam."


	18. Chapter 18

**Prompt: **Perception

**Character: **Finn

**Words: **360

It was basically wishful thinking, the whole Army thing.

I mean, an allergy to bee stings. And just like that, I'm disqualified. Before the chance to experience _anything_ my father did. I thought this was a sure thing.

But nothing is.

I'm more convinced than ever that breaking up with Rachel was the right thing to do. She still believes I'll be at Fort Benning, and so will my mom and Burt for as long as it matters.

See, because I drive to Georgia anyway.

Just to see it.

I drive by Fort Benning. I'm sure it's awesome, but I don't turn my head.

That future isn't mine.

I squeeze my eyes shut. Count to five. Still driving.

Open. Count to five.

Windows open, I scream. And I drive.

Diners. Gas stations. Campgrounds.

Toledo.

So I can walk where he walked once.

I imagine him holding my mom's hand, walking down _this sidewalk_, _this store aisle._

I see a movie at the old theater without really watching it, wondering the whole time if he ever sat where I'm sitting.

At night, I run the length of the football field at his high school. I wait for _that moment_ when my foot falls into the echo of his footprint. When I just _fit_ without even having to try.

I run every play in every position I can think of.

I run until the sky starts to turn pink.

I can't stop running.

Cincinnati.

It closes around me, gray. Swallows me whole. I can't breathe here.

I can't stay.

East. Until I reach the edge.

The ocean is huge. I walk the beach for miles.

I sit until I feel connected, grounded, _human_ again.

_Take a breath._

I see the most incredible sunset. The colors unlock something in me. Something breaks loose.

All the bad things break loose. Shame. Anger. Pressure. Pain. Guilt. Grief.

_Let it go._

What's left? Something warm. Solid. Safe. It's the exact weight, the exact size I always imagined my father's hand to be. It feels a lot like hope.

I hold on.

Stand up.

And when I look back at the way I came, I see footprints.


	19. Chapter 19

**Prompt: **"It isn't what it looks like! I swear!"

**Characters: **Kurt & Rachel

**Words: **732

The last person Kurt expects to see when he enters the cemetery is Rachel. Dressed as Peter Pan.

He doesn't think.

He just tackles her.

* * *

Two weeks earlier, it had been business as usual. Kurt and Rachel had both been cast as Lost Boys in the production of Peter Pan at the children's theater, much to their chagrin.

Their pre-rehearsal conversation is heated:

"If I was taller, your mom _totally _would've cast me as Peter. It's not my fault that I'm so short," Rachel laments for the tenth time that afternoon.

"She would've cast _me _before she cast you. I'm a boy like Peter, _and _I'm her son. She likes me the most out of anybody here. She told me she wouldn't cast anyone who wasn't at least ten for Peter. That's the only reason I didn't get it. I look just like him." Kurt returns sharply.

Rachel is in his face now. "So why are you just Nibs, then? Why aren't you Michael Darling? He's six like us, _and_ he gets to _fly_."

Kurt doesn't have an immediate response to this, just an irritated huff of breath, so Rachel continues: "My dads have a tape of a lady playing Peter. I've seen it. They cast her because she's lighter to fly around."

"You're still not ten!" Kurt insists, louder than he means to be, attracting his mother's attention.

"Nibs? Slightly? What's all this bickering? Lost Boys need to get along. There are pirates to fight!" She puts an arm around each of them.

Bette Hummel is a big kid, really. She looks like she's always playing dress-up, wearing bold colors and different pieces from the costume box. Today, it's a circular hat with a propeller on top and an eye patch. A sparkly wand dangles from her fingers. She nuzzles Kurt's cheek while she waits for an explanation.

"We were just talking about Peter," he admits quietly, color flooding his face.

"We _really _want to be him," Rachel puts in mournfully.

"Well, I already have a Peter, guys. What I really need though is some amazing Lost Boys to really support Peter and have his back. When I cast the Lost Boys, I looked for the _most _loyal, the _most _brave kids. And I think you guys are definitely two of them. I think you two can really affect people with your performances. Everybody is important here, guys. Now, let's get to work, what do you say? To Neverland!" Bette proclaims, pointing her wand toward the stage.

Kurt and Rachel giggle and hurry after her.

* * *

And then Kurt's mom dies.

Rachel's dads have seamlessly stepped in to keep the show going on, which his mom had always said was important. They even pick him up for rehearsal after his aunt goes back home, since his dad watches a lot of TV now.

But the cemetery was on the way to the theater. And he hasn't been with her for a really long time. So, while Mr. Hiram and Mr. LeRoy talk about Nana and the crocodile and music cues, Kurt sneaks away.

And there's Rachel. Rachel with his mom.

His mom is buried in dirt, not in the theater pretending with them. Rachel is dressed as Peter, not Slightly.

"Get away from her!" he growls as he wrestles her to the ground. "She's _my _mom! Not yours!" Her felt cap is knocked from her head, and her hair tumbles loose around her face.

Rachel is stunned silent for a moment, and then she scrambles away from him, tights tearing at the knees. She screws her eyes shut and…sings?

"_I do believe…I do believe…I do believe in fairies…" _

"Stop. You can't be here, Rachel. Go back to your dads. She's _my_ mom. Leave her alone."

"Yes, I can, Kurt. I'm trying to help! Didn't your mom say we can affect people with our performances? Peter _saves_ Tinkerbell's _life _when he sings for her! My mom left me with my dads, but maybe your mom could come back!"

"I don't think Tinkerbell was buried, though…" Kurt points out.

"Oh," Rachel bites her lip. "It's probably hard to hear under there."

"Yeah," Kurt sighs. "Sorry for knocking you over."

She shrugs and reaches for his hand. "To Neverland?"

"Okay."

They walk back in the direction of the theater, Peter's feathered cap and a glittering wand sitting near the plot of fresh earth.


	20. Chapter 20

**Prompt: **A key (canon) part of your character's storyline DIDN'T HAPPEN. Write the resulting AU.

**Character:** Finn

**Words: **729

**Warning: **Language

"Dude, flag on the play," Finn whispers, sliding into the seat next to Mike's in honors history.

"Why are we whispering?" Mike whispers back, not taking his eyes off his phone.

"We can't practice at my house anymore. Can we use the choir room?"

Mike meets Finn's eyes. "Your dad's back?"

"Will be, yeah. Trying to keep everything chill for the first few days."

Mike claps Finn on the shoulder. "Choir room," he confirms. "2:30?"

"Yeah, man. Thanks."

"Ain't no thing," Mike assures him. "Just don't bail on me. Trust me, you need every second of rehearsal time."

"Gee, thanks for the reminder. Like I don't feel like the biggest douche ever every time I see Rachel's face," Finn shoots back, while arranging his textbook, notebook and folder on his desk along with two pencils and two pens. He double-checks to make sure his phone is on silent as students finally begin to stream in.

"Touche," Mike chuckles.

* * *

On his way to the choir room after school, Puck shoulders him hard. They play football together, but it's the off-season which means that everyone is fair game for Puck's posturing and aggression. Unless you're Azimio and Karofsky - and Finn isn't.

In fact, Finn's on their shit-list for intervening when the three of them ganged up and started bullying Kurt, who along with being in glee is the son of his boss at Hummel Tires & Lube.

Finn has thought that glee might do Puck some good, but aside from a week-long stint that Beiste had instituted, he's never so much as looked inside the room.

The thing about Puck is, he is who Finn _could have been_.

Puck's dad left.

And Puck is angry, insecure, oozing bravado, feeling like crap.

And that just hits a little too close to home for Finn. Because _his_ dad could've thrown in the towel about a million times, said _fuck it_ to the 12 Steps, to his mom, to him, and left.

Lucky for him, his dad is still trying. Yeah, he slipped up, but they say that relapse is part of recovery. He'll be there when Finn gets home from school.

Finn glances behind him at Puck's retreating back.

_Magnetic repulsion_.

* * *

After working together closely for the last year, Mike knows that Finn learns choreography best in half-hour blocks. So, with the Sammy Davis Jr track on repeat, they focus on steps and rhythms until exactly 3.

And then Finn is out the door, throwing a "Thanks, man! See ya!" over his shoulder.

* * *

Rachel accosts him on his way to the car.

"Do you have time for some coffee? Study date?" she asks hopefully.

"Sorry, Rach. My dad's home. How's your nose, though?" he tilts her chin, examining the bruising before kissing his hand and laying it along the side of her face.

"It looks worse than it is. It'll make a charming chapter in my autobiography Behind The Curtain: A Berry Intimate Look Into The Life of Broadway Star, Rachel Berry by Rachel Berry."

"I'm sure it will. I'm still sorry though."

"As long as the bruising is gone by prom, you're forgiven." She winks, but Finn knows she's half-serious. Probably more like 90%.

"Okay, I gotta go, but maybe I'll text you tonight!" Finn is pecking her cheek and jumping into his car before Rachel has time to suggest the Lima Bean drive-thru.

* * *

He eases the front door open, relieved to see the house still relatively clean from his once-over before he left for school this morning. One placemat is slightly askew though - he squares it on his way to the refrigerator.

He is standing there in the soft glow, the cool air a balm as he contemplates leftovers or a sandwich, when his dad appears on the other side of refrigerator door.

"Hey, son." It is said so quietly, and his dad can't hold the initial eye contact for more than a few seconds.

"Dad…" It's like all the words he wants to say are stuck at the base of his throat. He closes the refrigerator, so there's nothing between them.

They stand awkwardly and eventually hug.

"I'm sorry, Finn." His dad's voice sounds tight and small.

"I know. Thanks for getting help."

"You and your mom mean the world to me. I have a lot to lose."

Finn meets his eyes. "Me too."


	21. Chapter 21

**Prompt: **Dalton Muck-Up Day

**Character: **Blaine

**Words: **789

I thought things would get better at Dalton. Why did I think that? Why did I think I could ever go to school again?

I don't think I can do this. Not just school, but live in the world.

Everything comes at me at once now. I don't know how to describe it. It's what I imagine autism might feel like.

Take right now. This walk from the dormitory to Dalton proper. There's the sunlight, first of all. I'm grateful for the new school with the anti-bullying policy, but what I wouldn't give for a baseball cap or a pair of sunglasses right now. Unfortunately, along with the policy comes a dress code, and from what I was able to glean from the code of conduct, neither of these aforementioned items are approved. So, what used to be beautiful is now a source of excruciating pain. I keep my head down as it throbs in time with my eyes.

Then add to that an ever-present sense of vertigo which, I might add, is not helped by the loafers. These soles are more slippery than I'm used to now, and I wish for the tennis shoes I left back at home. The addition of my book bag to this equation makes me even more off-balance. Sometimes it's subtle - a slight unsteadiness - and sometimes I am forced to sit down wherever I am until the world stops careening beneath my feet. (The latter hasn't happened here yet, but it really is just a matter of time.)

And oh my God, the noise. The wind whipping by my ears is enough to make me seriously consider covering them with my hands. (That wouldn't look strange at _all_.) But add to that the conversations of students around me, and I really feel like I'm going crazy. It's this jumble of sound that's closing in on me. I can't begin to sift through this assault. It's gibberish. To isolate and hone in on a single voice, and then decipher what he is saying is as laborious and exhaustive as picking up a strand of hair with chopsticks.

The noise increases tenfold inside Dalton. I grit my teeth. The office is straight ahead, so I'm able to inquire as to the whereabouts of my American history class and even charm the secretary into walking me there.

The class itself is a blur of fluorescent lights and PowerPoint notes on blinding monitors. The teacher's voice is quickly reduced to a Peanuts-style _whomp-whomp-whomp-whomp _in the background as I struggle to find purchase where I can, jotting an odd word down here and there.

I am drowning in information. The stream of it is constant and unrelenting, and I have no filter to help me decide what is pertinent. Overstimulated doesn't even begin to cover how it feels. Do I time my breaths? Float? Attempt to tread water with limbs leaden with exhaustion? It all requires a level of thought that is so far above me now. So, I sit. Eyes trained on a blank spot on the table, trying to unobtrusively plug my ears with my fingers and flip a page in the text when I can steel myself to handle the small rustling snap that results.

Every nerve ending in my body is screaming by the end of class. My head throbs remorselessly. I don't think I can move. I swallow, willing a wave of nausea to pass, and manage to snag the sleeve of the guy sitting next to me.

Squinting, I brace myself and meet his eyes. Tears almost come to mine as I recognize my roommate. I think his name is Trent. He is quiet and seems concerned as the classroom empties and the teacher - I have not even learned his name - retires to his office.

My voice is hushed (while sounding thunderous to my own ears) as I finally speak, "I would really appreciate it if you could…help me back to our room. I'm recovering from a concussion, and I…need a break." My eyes are screwed shut again. I try to breathe.

Wordlessly, my roommate helps me out of the classroom and across the campus, which is decidedly more peaceful with everyone in the hallways trying to get to their next class instead of out here. We get back to the dorm room, my home away from home that really doesn't feel like anything yet, and I am helped into bed. My shoes are removed, the blinds lowered, the light stays off. I wait, body tense, for the deafening click of the door signaling that I'm alone.

It doesn't come.

Because this roommate of mine, he stays.

And I can't help the sigh of relief that escapes me.


End file.
